


Dragon's Heart

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Villa is a knight, Fernando Morientes is a sorcerer and David Silva is a squire. They’re off to kill a dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dragon's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to my lj. this fic has some violence, but I wouldn't consider it to be too graphic.

David arrives in the courtyard at a run, when the sun has just risen. He’s late, and he knows it.

Sure enough, Sir Villa and Morientes are already there, a page is saddling Villa’s black charger while Villa rummages through a saddle bag, and Morientes is already mounted on his dun mare.

Sir Villa doesn’t even look up when David claims his stallion from a page, although Morientes gives him a friendly wave. David hurries to check his tack; fortunately, his bag has already been loaded onto his horse, and he has his bow and his short sword with him. (He checks twice to make sure he has his arrows.) Another page arrives, leading a pack horse loaded with his and Sir Villa’s armor. Morientes yawns.

Sir Villa dismisses the pages with a gesture and swings himself onto his horse. David does likewise, his mouth dry and his hands sweating.

And Sir Villa rides out of the castle, into the light of the rising sun, his slim shoulders thrown back, his leather armor as black as his prancing stallion. Morientes follows him, yawning, deceptively meek, his red sorcerer’s robes rippling behind him. And after both of them, David Silva, squire and merchant’s son, rides, his head down.

They take only two short breaks during the day – riding almost straight south. Sir Villa and Morientes ride together for most of the day, leaving David trailing behind. Although Morientes speaks a few times with David about the roads and the weather, hot and dry, Sir Villa ignores his squire until all three men are sitting around their campfire that evening.

“Have you ever even seen a dragon?” Sir Villa asks, lounging against a log, completely at ease.

David blushes, angrily. “Yes, of course.”

Last year, one of the instructors took all of the squires out dragon hunting with a troop of knights. There had been a trio green dragons – sisters – who had recently settled on a hill overlooking a village near the capital. The longest of the three had been about twenty feet, and their claws were the size of David’s sword and twice as sharp. The squires hadn’t fought, of course, but they had watched as the knights made a grim charge up the hill, and later, seen the corpses. Half the knights had died, melted into their armor or beheaded by razor sharp teeth, before all three of the dragons’ hearts had been ripped from their chests. Now the hearts hung in the Great Hall, glimmering like emeralds.

Sir Villa laughs without mirth. “Well then, I guess I don’t have anything to worry about. You’ll be worth an entire army.”

David bites his lip and hangs his head. Of course Sir Villa wouldn’t be impressed. He killed his first dragon when he was eight, with only a sling, two rocks and a hunting knife. Everyone has heard the story – the dragon had come out of a lake when his sister was playing and taken her. Sir Villa’s father had been afraid to give chase, so Sir Villa had, on foot. When he found it, he’d blinded it with his sling (two perfect shots, one to shatter each crystalline eye), and, dodging its claws and flames, climbed up its chest to carve out its heart.

Morientes gives David a pitying look.

“Go easy on him, Guaje. He’s just a kid.”

Sir Villa shrugs. “A kid who’s going to get all of us killed. I didn’t ask for a squire.”

“We aren’t all going to get killed. I, for one, have no intention of getting eaten by a dragon.” Morientes yawns and leans closer to the fire. His fingers weave a brief pattern in the air, and a ball of light appears in his left hand. He yawns again. “I’m going to bed. You would too, if you had any sense.” He turns to David and gives a small bow, “Good night, squire.”

David watches Morientes walk away, the ball of light hovering just above his head, lighting his way to his tent.

“Starlight.” David turns, surprised. Sir Villa is watching him, his expression guarded. “He calls down starlight to read by, since it’s steadier than torch light, and won’t set his tent on fire.”

David tears his eyes away from the starlight and meets Sir Villa’s eyes, before ducking his head. “I’ve never seen sorcery before, sir.”

He’d expected Sir Villa to laugh, and with a cruel shrug of his shoulders dismiss him once and for all, but the knight doesn’t. There’s a long silence and then Sir Villa says, almost regretfully,

“Not many people have.” David hears the knight rise and stretch. “Put out the fire and go to bed.”

Years of training cause David to baulk this order. “Sir, shouldn’t we leave it lit for whoever keeps watch?”

Sir Villa gives David a look full of contempt. “We have Mori.” He turns and walks into the shadows.

David kneels next to the fire, and pours water over the embers, stirring them with a stick. Behind him, Sir Villa steps out of the shadows and into Morientes’ starlight. Over the hissing of the dying fire, David hears Sir Villa’s voice, barely a murmur, and Morientes’ amused reply. Suddenly, the air seems to tighten around David’s skin and then push outward. David turns in surprise.

Morientes is standing outside his tent and waves at David. “Just a little something to keep the robbers out.” The sorcerer ducks back inside his tent, letting the flap drop behind him. By the starlight, David can see two silhouettes inside the tent, before the light is suddenly extinguished.

David sighs, he could have used a little light getting to his tent; now that the fire is out, the camp site is very dark. He makes his way to his tent slowly, careful to avoid stumbling over the ground.

He stretches in the dark, then falls into his bedroll, instantly asleep.

David rises just before the sun, a habit so ingrained in him after years of military training that he doesn’t think twice, he simply steps out of his tent into the grey light of dawn.

The sun hasn’t risen above the tree line, although the eastern slopes of the mountains are already glinting with gold. The campsite is quiet, but David isn’t surprised to see Sir Villa already up, dressed in black leather armor, watching the sun rise.

“Get your sword,” Sir Villa says, without turning his head. “We can’t break camp until Mori wakes up, and that won’t be for another two hours, so we might as well get some practice in.”

David bows, then returns to his tent to put on his own leather armor, and picks up his sword.

Sir Villa is stretching when David comes outside. David carefully places his sword on the ground and begins his own stretches, trying to avoid looking at Sir Villa.

David saw Sir Villa spar once, at a tournament held by the king, shortly after the knight’s return from Africa. The knight he’d fought; an Englishman seven inches taller than him, had insulted Sir Villa’s sister. Sir Villa had challenged him to a duel.

The Englishman bragged that Sir Villa would have to be carried back to Asturias in a box. When they’d stepped into the ring, the other man’s broadsword had been twice the size of Villa’s sword, and David had been afraid that his hero would fail.

Sir Villa had disarmed than man in under a minute, and pressed his sword to the Englishman’s neck. He’d carved a cross into the man’s cheek and then said, loud enough for the crowd to hear, “I don’t kill idiots.”

Then he left the arena.

David finishes stretching and picks up his sword. Sir Villa does likewise. The two men circle each other, slowly. Although it’s only a practice match, David’s heart is pounding. He hopes that he can impress his knight master and not get beaten too badly.

Sir Villa attacks, thrusting in lightening fast. David blocks hastily, before launching a counter attack. Sweat drips down the side of his face; he ignores it. Sir Villa parries, and pivots to strike at David’s undefended left side. Without thinking, David tosses his sword from his right to his left hand to parry. Sir Villa is momentarily taken by surprise, and stumbles backward. David presses his advantage, but Sir Villa blocks him expertly. David’s muscles feel stiff from yesterday’s ride, but he keeps pressing forward. Then another attack comes, and before he can adjust, Sir Villa’s sword briefly presses against his neck, before dropping.

For a second, after Sir Villa drops his sword, David and Sir Villa are only inches apart, and David can feel the knight’s breath on his face and smell the leather of his armor mixed with his sweat and something else, elusive and slightly spicy.

Then Sir Villa steps back and sheathes his sword.

“You need to work on your strength, and your guard is terrible. But at least you can fight with your off hand.”

David swallows. He thought he’d done well; only one other boy at the palace had been able to fight with both hands at all. Unable to meet Sir Villa’s harsh black eyes, he bows.

“Thank you, sir.”

He can feel Sir Villa’s eyes on him, and he blushes, ashamed of himself. He looks at his feet; above him, the sun is rising, the limitless sky bleeding copper and pink onto the clouds.

Morientes steps out of his tent and puts his hand across David’s back, large, warm and comforting, even through his armor.

“You haven’t beaten him too badly, have you, Guaje?”

Sir Villa snorts and ignores the question. “Now that you’re finally up; let’s ride. Some of us have to stop dragons from terrorizing the countryside.”

Morientes laughs. “Like you care about the countryside,” he says. “But since you asked so nicely, I’ll take the wards down.”

He removes his hand from David’s back and once more David feels the strange tightening and loosening of the air. It’s more startling this time, but the sensation is gone as quickly as it came.

They don’t waste time packing the camp and riding out; despite Morientes’ quips, Sir Villa is clearly eager to travel as far as possible each day.

Sir Villa takes the lead again, but instead of riding beside the knight, like he did the previous day, Morientes rides with David.

They pass a few people on the road; one or two of them stop and speak briefly with Sir Villa, asking about the road’s conditions. Sir Villa answers in monotone, quick, one word answers.

Meanwhile, David asks Morientes about dragons. Court gossip said that Sir Villa met Morientes in Arabia, when the sorcerer saved the knight’s life in a fight against a sand dragon, and the two have ridden against dragons together ever since.

“I don’t understand why dragon attack people though, sir.” David says. “Sheep and cattle must be easier targets for them.”

Morientes smiles. “You don’t need to call me sir, David. But,” he continues, “dragons don’t eat people. They attack towns because they’re like…packrats. They collect things, anything. Gold, jewels, trash, roof tiles, whatever they can. And they can’t resist all of the things in a town.”

David nods. “So they don’t have really have hordes full of treasure?”

Morientes shrugs. “Some do, but not many. It depends on what the dragon’s robbed. But the dragon’s heart is the real prize; those are worth twice their weight in diamonds.”

Sir Villa, whose been listening to the conversation, snorts. “Trust a merchant’s son to worry about the loot. Killing dragons won’t make you rich, if you want that, you should go back to your father’s caravans.”

David blushes and grips his reins tightly. He’d begged his father to purchase him a place among the squires, an honor reserved normally for only the nobility. But the king’s brother owed David’s father money, and so an agreement had been reached. David had always wanted to serve his king and keep the kingdom safe, but now he wonders if he’ll even survive killing his first dragon.

After that, Sir Villa goes back to ignoring David. The knight and Morientes ride on ahead, talking. Occasionally, Morientes will throw his head back and laugh and Sir Villa will look up at him with glinting eyes and a half-smile. David watches them, Sir Villa’s straight back and proud eyes, darkly beautiful, and Morientes’ ragged cheerfulness, and his stomach tightens.

They reach the town at the end of the fifth day of riding. It’s built onto a hilltop, perched, white plaster and tile, above a river-carved canyon. Their horses double back and forth up the hill, under the eyes of scotched watch towers. The fields for the last several miles have been burnt, and up close many of the white houses show stains from the smoke.

As they approach the center of town, the streets are lined with the town’s inhabitants, large eyed with drawn faces. Since the dragon came, many have been starving, unable to go down to their burnt fields. Many balconies have archers standing on them, fearfully surveying the sky.

Yet only a few people cheer, and most shrink inward when the three men ride by. More often than not, the villagers cross themselves.

They dismount in the central courtyard, outside the mayor’s house. The air is heavy and the smell of smoke lingers. The light is murky, as though it was coming from a long way off, and the back of David’s neck prickles.

The mayor comes out to greet Sir Villa, bowing repeatedly. He bows to David as well, but seems to ignore Morientes. Sir Villa gives the mayor a dark look, but Morientes just shrugs.

They dine with the mayor, his pregnant wife and the town’s priest in almost complete silence; the priest asks for news from the capital and Sir Villa replies in monotone. The mayor shoots fearful looks at Morientes throughout dinner, and fingers his rosary beads from time to time. Although David has been riding all day, he can’t bring himself to eat much, and from the look of it, neither can Sir Villa or Morientes.

They excuse themselves as soon as possible, and the mayor’s wife leads them to their rooms, one for David and Sir Villa and a second for Morientes.

David and Sir Villa check over their equipment, and Sir Villa lays out his plate armor. Morientes comes in, his face unusually serious.

“I’ve located it; it’s in a cave a few miles west of here.”

Sir Villa nods, his face unreadable. “We’ll leave just before dawn.”

Morientes walks over to Sir Villa and lays a hand across his shoulder. “Are you even going to sleep?”

Sir Villa grins up at him, utterly predatory. “What are you suggesting?”

David blushes and turns away but Morientes just laughs. “I was going to out. And I think I might need an escort.”

Sir Villa looks at him for a long time, his face nearly blank. Then he nods. “David, get me my sword,” he says, without turning to look at his squire.

David complies, and the two men leave. David reads to pass the time before they return; he can’t fall asleep either, and he desperately wishes he could have joined his companions walking.

When they return, he changes his mind. Sir Villa slams the door open, not bothering to hid his anger, and Morientes’ face has a tight look to it.

“They think you should burn in hell, but first they want you to kill their goddamn dragon,” Sir Villa says, voice dripping with contempt.

Morientes shrugs. “What do you expect, Guaje? It’s the same everywhere. They don’t understand magic, of course they fear it.” He pauses, then ads, dryly, “I think you’re scaring David.”

Sir Villa sees David for the first time and lets out a short laugh, not entirely bitter. “It’s past his bedtime anyway.”

David nods and bows, knowing a dismissal when he hears one. He spends that night alone, imagining the dragon and the curve of Sir Villa’s back.

That morning, they rise before the sun, mount and head out, dressed in full plate armor. They ride in silence; the road winds out of town then curves up a hill. Morning mist still clings to the charred hillside. As they ride on, the smell of sulfur in the morning air increases.

They leave the road soon enough, cutting up through what must have been pasture in former days, but now is nothing but dust. The mist is beginning to lift, but the air still hasn’t warmed.

At the crest of the hill, David sees the cave’s mouth, on the face of the hill opposite. The mist around its opening glows golden, not the organic gold of the sun, but a colder, crueler gold.

“Leave the horses here,” Sir Villa commands, and they dismount. David strokes his horse’s nose, saying goodbye, just in case. Then he checks that he has his sword, his bow and arrows and his shield. Sir Villa likewise checks his equipment, and, with a nod to Morientes, they begin to walk.

A few yards below the mouth of the cave they stop, hidden behind a few boulders. David fiddles with his sword belt.

“It should still be sluggish,” Sir Villa says, “because it’s hasn’t warmed up yet, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be quick. We have to break its eyes and then take out the heart.” He looks at David. “Don’t get yourself killed, squire.”

Morientes rests his hand on David’s head and ruffles his hair. David’s mouth is dry. “He’ll do fine, Guaje.”

Sir Villa gives them both an inscrutable look, his coal mine eyes oddly gentle. “Well then.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “What are we waiting for?”

The smell of sulfur almost gags David when they step inside the cave, but the light inside is far brighter than the feeble light of the morning outside. As they walk onward, the golden glow only intensifies. Underfoot, jewels mix with bones, hunks of masonry and rocks.

They’re like packrats, David remembers, looking down. They take everything.

When he looks up, the dragon is there, curled in on itself, lying on a pile of gold and garbage. The light shinning from its skin is so sharp it hurts David’s eyes.

Almost lazily, the dragon raises its head and tastes the air with its crystalline tongue. It blinks, twice, and its eyes glow a darker gold. Slowly, with a mechanical grace, it disentangles its legs from its tale and rises onto its back feet, half unfurling its wings. Its head nearly reaches the ceiling of the chamber, thirty feet above David.

David looks over at Sir Villa, who’s standing in the entrance of the chamber, his sword held loosely in his hand. He nods to Morientes, who begins chanting under his breath. A sticky cloud of darkness begins gathering around the dragon’s head, trying to plug its nostrils and mouth.

The dragon roars and tries to flame, only to inhale the cloud. It sputters and claws at its throat. Sir Villa advances. The dragon falls to the ground on all fours, sending a cloud of ash up from its hoard. The blackness still clings in shards to its claws, but its mouth is clear. It turns toward Sir Villa, eyes gleaming. Just as it flames, Sir Villa dodges left, and slashes out at the side of its head. Where the steel of his sword strike the dragon’s scales, sparks appear.

The dragon roars again, in anger. David sees that its right eye has cracked where Sir Villa’s sword hit.

Mori is preparing another spell as the dragon spins, lashing at Sir Villa with its tail. The knight steps back, but the tip of it still catches him and sends him flying off his feet. He lands slumped against the wall and gropes for his sword. The dragon advances, its tail lashing behind it, claws extended.

Time seems to slow; David runs toward the dragon and lands a blow on its side. The force of the impact shoots back up his arms. The dragon turns, fixing him with its good eye. David realizes it is about to flame, but he feels frozen in place.

Fire washes over him, curiously cold. When it dissipates, the dragon growls angrily and advances, only to turn have Sir Villa ram the pommel of his sword into its already cracked right eye, crushing it to dust.

David looks over at Morientes, who winks at him. Lightening wraps around Morientes’ arms and flies toward the dragon. The sparks linger on its scales as it rears up again in anger.

Sir Villa is standing next to David, suddenly. “You can’t always count on Mori to have your back like that,” he growls. David nods, not trusting his voice.

The dragon flames again, and they dive apart. David smells his hair burning, and feels the skin on his cheek blister.

The dragon, back on all fours, advances toward him, its good eye fixed on him. David grips his sword, ready to ram it into that eye.

Sir Villa slices his sword across the dragon’s back, just below its wing. The dragon stops, seemingly oblivious to the electricity still leaping between the tips of its folded wings and turns its head. David slices across the dragon’s face, catching its eye and leaving a deep scratch across the gold.

The dragon bellows and David hits again, watches the gold go dim and shatter.

The dragon lashes out, randomly, and hits David. Its claws carve grooves into his breastplate. Before he can react, its other claw fastens itself around his legs.

Sir Villa, almost casually, brings his sword down across the dragon’s back, severing one wing. It roars, drops David and turns, spurting flames from its mouth. It rears up into the air.

“Now!” Sir Villa shouts.

An invisible blow strikes the dragon in the side, rolling it backward onto its hoard, belly exposed.

Morientes approaches the dragon, not breaking his chant. The dragon struggles against invisible bonds, trapped upside down. The effort leaves Morientes pale.

Sir Villa carefully climbs onto the dragon’s stomach. It flames again, uselessly scorching the ceiling. Sir Villa pushes the tip of his sword down into the dragon’s glowing chest. Slowly, deliberately, he cuts around the dragon’s heart, then pulls it out, still beating, glowing gold and dripping pale blood. The dragon ceases to glow.

The cavern is almost dark, and Mori doesn’t make a light, so they walk to the cave entrance with only the dim reflections to daylight to guide them.

At the mouth of the cave, Sir Villa whistles, sharp in the quiet air, and their horses come trotting back to them. They ride back to the village in silence. Sir Villa keeps the dripping heart tucked under one arm.

Their return is greeted by the same eerie silence as their first entrance to the town. They ride to the square outside the church. The priest and the mayor are waiting for them on the steps. Sir Villa dismounts, followed by Morientes and David. David’s legs feel like rubber and his plate armor weighs heavily on his back.

The mayor bows to Sir Villa. “Thank you, your lordship, for ridding us of this terror. We will be grateful to you forever.”

David knows it’s impossible to shrug in plate armor, but Sir Villa seems to anyway. “Do you want the heart?”

The priest, likewise, bows to Sir Villa. “We would be honored if your lordship would place it on the altar.”

“Of course, my companions and I will.” Sir Villa steps forward toward the door.

The mayor pales and the priest bows again. “Your lordship and his squire are welcome in God’s house, but, of course your lordship understands that the sorcerer may not enter.”

Sir Villa fixes his black eyes on the priest. “I understand,” he says, shortly, then turns and walks away. The pale gold blood of the dragon stains his black armor, and the heart still faintly glows gold.

David nods to the priest and the mayor and follows the knight and his sorcerer.

They ride, slowly, to an inn on the outskirts of town. David doesn’t bother to ask why they don’t go back to the mayor’s house; he knows the answer.

The burn on David’s cheek is smarting, and he can feel bruises forming where the dragon gripped him. When he finally gets his armor off, he collapses on the bed. A short while later, Sir Villa comes in. He’s wearing a loose tunic and pants, and David can tell he’s badly bruised as well, from the careful way he’s walking.

The knight throws something onto the bed, next to David. It’s a small glass bottle, which, when David uncorks, fills the room with a musty smell.

“Put it on your cheek,” Sir Villa says, before sitting down in a chair.

David complies, although it makes the burn sting when he rubs it on. Then he watches Sir Villa.

“You did well,” the knight says, after a short silence, and David knows this is all the praise he’ll get. He smiles, shyly.

“Thank you, sir.”

Sir Villa waves his hand, then winces. David notices he has open sores on his arm.

“From where the blood leaked through my armor,” Sir Villa says. “Fucked up my armor, too.” His voice is tired, but his eyes are alert as ever.

There’s knock at the door, and Morientes walks in. He looks tired, too, but he’s still grinning. He sits down on the bed next to David and stretches.

“Glad that’s over?” he asks. David nods and Sir Villa snorts. Morientes looks over at Sir Villa. “Oh, don’t be so bitter. It’s dead and now these people are safe. You should be glad, even if you are a nasty little man.”

Sir Villa rolls his eyes. “I’ll be glad when we’re back in Madrid. I’m going to go take a nap.” He stands up, wincing a little at his sore muscles, and leaves the room.

David lies back on his pillow.

“You look tired,” Mori says. David begins to say he’s not, but yawns instead. Mori smiles. “I’m going to go look at the clouds. Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”

David falls asleep before the other man has shut the door.

When he wakes up, it’s almost dusk. His cheek doesn’t hurt as much, but his muscles are stiffer than they were before he fell asleep.

He pads down the hall and knocks on the door to Villa and Mori’s room. Sir Villa answers, his hair still rumpled from sleep. David’s fingers itch to comb it flat, but he resists, figuring that anyone who touches Sir Villa’s hair probably gets stabbed.

So he locks his fingers behind his back and keeps his eyes down. Sir Villa goes back to cleaning his sword, dried dragon blood flakes off it, leaving tiny pits in the steel. But before too long Sir Villa puts down the sword and walks over to the window.

“Is it what you expected?” he asks, suddenly.

“What?” replied David, taken aback.

“Being a knight, killing dragons.” Still facing the window, Sir Villa waves a hand. “All of that.”

David pauses. “I didn’t really know what to expect. But…I think we helped people today. And that’s why I wanted to be a knight. To help people.”

Sir Villa snorts. “I thought you wanted to be a knight so your father could have noble heirs.” David doesn’t say anything.

Sir Villa turns and looks at David. He’s about to say something, something important, something that will explain his dark eyes and his anger and why he looks at David like that when he pauses.

“Where’s Mori?” he asks, and then, without waiting for David’s reply, he curses and grabs his sword. David fetches his from his own room, and then follows Sir Villa at a near run.

In the center of the square, a stake has been erected. Morientes is already tied to it, leaden charms to deaden his magic fastened around his neck. Guards are bringing timber and brush to the base of the stake. The roof tops around the square are lined with archers. David notices that when he and Sir Villa enter the square, their bows immediately turn to point at them.

Sir Villa walks across the square. His sword isn’t drawn, but it doesn’t need to be. People part in front of him. His eyes give off black sparks. David follows in his footsteps.

The priest hurries to block their path, bowing obsequiously. The mayor follows him, looking pale.

Sir Villa stares at the priest, his eyes burning. He’s gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles are white. “Return him to me.”

The priest gives Sir Villa a gentle smile. “You are clearly under the sorcerer’s power, your lordship. We are fortunate we caught him before you fell too far under the influence of his fell master to ever be redeemed.”

Sir Villa is quiet for a moment; like a storm before the thunder sounds, or a dragon before it flames, David thinks. His own hand is on his sword, although in this open place, it’s more likely they’ll be shot by the archers before either of them can draw their swords.

“Your grace, actually.” Sir Villa’s voice is deceptively mild now. The priest blinks and Sir Villa continues, one hand now toying absentmindedly with his dagger. “I’m the Duke of Asturias, which makes me oh, fifth in line for the throne. Not that an esteemed man of the cloth such as yourself should think about things.” Sir Villa meets the priest’s eyes, evenly. “So I would suggest that you tell your archers to stand down.”

The priest gives Sir Villa an ironic bow. “Of course, your grace. But first I must ask for your word of honor that you won’t attempt to free the sorcerer.”

Sir Villa looks beyond the priest, to stake behind him. Morientes’ head is resting on his chest, but he looks up and into Sir Villa’s eyes. He attempts a smile, but the look on his face is so desperate, so powerless, it forces David to look down.

Sir Villa, his eyes not leaving his companion’s, says, “May I consult with my squire?”

The priest bows again. “Naturally, your grace. Now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare for the execution. You may give your oaths to the mayor, who will then order the archers to stand down.”

The priest turns and makes his way over toward the stake. He crosses himself and begins chanting. An alter boy makes his way to the priest’s side, holding a torch.

The mayor turns to Sir Villa “We are very thankful that your grace has killed the dragon.” His voice shakes with nervousness.

Sir Villa ignores him, and faces David, his expression inscrutable. His eyes soften.

“You should leave, Silva. It would be best, I think.”

David shakes his head. “Your grace,” he begins.

“Call me sir, Silva,” Sir Villa says, with exasperation. He throws a look over his shoulder, at the priest, who is still chanting.

“Sir,” David continues, “sir, I owe him my life.”

“They have army uniforms,” Sir Villa says, glaring at a guard a few paces away. “Does the life of a fellow countryman matter less than the life of a cursed sorcerer?”

The mayor winces and goes pale.

David meets Sir Villa’s dark eyes with his own, and matches their determination. “What do you think, sir?”

It happens so fast, David barely sees the flash of steel. The mayor crumples without a sound, blood blossoming from his neck.

“Get the charms off Mori and get him untied,” Sir Villa calls over his shoulder, already running toward the stake. “I’ll take the guards.”

It’s like the dragon all over again, time seems to slow. A guard comes at David, he parries and slashes, aiming for the legs. The man goes down, cursing. Arrows fall on either side of him, clattering on the paving stones. He sprints across the square. Two guards lie by Sir Villa’s feet; he hacks down a third, with casual violence.

The priest yells something, David doesn’t understand what, and throws the torch onto the kindling around the stake.

Sir Villa’s sparring with two guards, and the fire is spreading. An arrow grazes David’s cheek, he wipes the blood off without thinking.

The kindling hasn’t all lit yet, only the outer most brush is burning, although before long, the wood closer the stake will be catch. David drops his sword and jumps over the flames, landing on his feet, inches from Morientes’ face.

The smoke makes his eyes water, and the fire’s burning the backs of his legs. Morientes looks pale and his eyes are glassy, but he attempts a smile at David. David reaches up and pulls the lead charms off Mori’s neck, throwing them over his shoulder. Then he draws his dagger and reaches around the other man to cut free his wrists. Mori rests his head on David’s shoulder, panting. David can see bruises on his face and neck.

His hands free, Morientes reaches his arms around David. The fire burns hotter around them, and the smoke is nearly suffocating.

Mori’s chanting, his voice harsh with exhaustion, but growing stronger. The heat and the smoke disappear.

David pushes against Morientes’ chest, and the man reluctantly raises his arms. David ducks down and cuts his feet free, then helps the man step out through the cold fire onto the stone of the plaza.

Although the archers are still firing, the arrows are bouncing off a barrier in the sky. Morientes, who is leaning on David’s shoulder, laughs tiredly.

“Can’t be saved from burning only to have my noble rescuers shot full of arrows, now can I?” he asks.

Sir Villa walks over to them. “The priest ran,” he says, bitterly. “And we’d better get going.”

“Where?” David asks, stupidly. He can’t think, the cut on his cheek stings, and Morientes is heavy.

Sir Villa wipes his sword on a fallen guard and sheathes it. Then he offers Morientes his shoulder, and the sorcerer leans against it gratefully. “South,” he replies. “South to the sea.”

David picks his sword up off the ground and wipes it clean.

Morientes’ barrier lasts until they make it to the stables. Sir Villa grabs the dragon’s heart out of their rooms and stuffs it in his saddle bag, while David pays the terrified innkeeper. They mount quickly and ride as fast as Mori’s strength allows, but they aren’t followed out of the village, to David’s surprise.

When he mentions that he expected to be pursued, Sir Villa shrugs. “If that priest has any sense, he’s gone to get an order for our arrest. Then he’ll make some knight hunt us down.”

The sun is lazily drifting down into night, so they stop. Sir Villa sends David to go water the horses and fill up their water bottles. The air by the river is pale and cold, like the underbelly of a dragon (or a dead body) and a nearby tree is burnt to the ground. The smell of smoke still lingers, on his skin or in the air, along with the smell of blood on cobblestones. David throws up.

He hasn’t eaten anything, really, so its an exercise in futility, but his body heaves and heaves anyway. He feels marginally better when he’s done.

He fills the water bottles and leads the horses back. The sun has set, but the sky is still light.

Morientes is sitting on the ground, his shirt off. Sir Villa is next to him, carefully cleaning a long, shallow cut on the sorcerer’s chest. Mori has called down some starlight, and by its clear and constant light David sees Mori’s chest and arms are covered with cuts and bruises. He gags again.

Sir Villa looks up. “David, I need some water.” Wordlessly, David hands Sir Villa a bottle and sits down facing the two men.

He watches as Sir Villa cleans the dirt and clotted blood off of Mori with a gentleness David didn’t know the other man possessed. Neither man speaks; Mori’s eyes are closed and he wears an expression of profound gratefulness.

When the last cut is clean, Sir Villa looks across at David and pats the ground next to him. Not knowing why, David scoots over, next to him.

Sir Villa cups David’s chin with his hand, and David can feel the knight’s calluses catch on his skin. He licks his lips, unconsciously.

Sir Villa reaches up and runs a wet rag across his cheek, and David suddenly remembers the arrow that cut him. He winces, but only a little, and Sir Villa cleans that cut, then, with equal care, cleans the burn on his other cheek.

David can hardly bare Sir Villa’s rough hands on his face, with their cautious gentleness they burn worse than dragon fire. He sighs, whether with relief or regret, he’s not sure, when Sir Villa finishes.

Mori’s put his shirt on and is lying gingerly on his back, watching the stars. “Do you need anyone to clean you up, Guaje?” he asks.

“I’m not that careless,” Sir Villa snorts, and lies down in the curve of Mori’s arm. David slumps forward and absently draws a pattern in the dirt with his finger.

“I supposed I should thank you both,” Morientes says, and David can tell he’s inched his way closer to Sir Villa.

“Don’t bother,” Sir Villa replies. David looks up in time to see Mori roll his eyes. David starts to get up, but Morientes says, “You too, David. You didn’t have to do that.”

David stops, in an awkward half crouch. “You saved my life, with the dragon,” he stammers out. “I should be thanking you.”

Mori smiles at him. “I didn’t become a fugitive to do it. You can still leave, you know. Go back to the town, say you were under a curse or something.” He looks over at Sir Villa, whose eyes are still fixed on the distant stars. “We won’t be coming back to Spain for a while, I imagine.”

He means it kindly, but for the first time that day, David feels angry. “I want to stay with you,” he says, loudly, because he means this more than he means anything. “I know what I did.”

For the first time, Sir Villa looks at him, and then at Mori. “Let the kid stay if he wants to.”

Mori laughs. “Come look at the stars, David.” So David curls in next to Morientes, and the three men watch the stars wheel overhead until morning comes, unwilling to fall asleep.

When the sun does rise, they ride on, slowly and deliberately. They double back on their tracks and ride through rivers, tortuously and carefully making their way to the sea. They know they’re being followed; on the rare moments they cut across open country, they can see clouds of dust on the horizon, moving closer.

On the third day David wakes up, nestled against Sir Villa, and smells a sea breeze floating across the brilliance of the morning. Morientes is looking north, muttering to himself.

Sir Villa pushes David away and rises. “They’re catching up.” It isn’t a question, but Mori nods anyway. “Who is it?”

Morientes wrinkles his forehead. “Casillas, Ramos, Puyol and Iniesta. Plus some troops.”

Sir Villa curses. “It wouldn’t be a problem if weren’t so exhausted. We need to push for the coast today.”

David rises and dusts himself off. Morientes turns to him. “David, this is…”

David cuts him off. “I’m going south with you.”

Morientes wraps his arm around him. “Good.”

Irritated, Sir Villa snorts. “Let’s ride, unless we want to have this touching moment in a jail somewhere.”

The air is hot and dry, despite being so close to the sea, and the land is hot and dry. Although David can see the promise of the blue sea ahead, when he looks over his shoulder he can see the cloud of dust from their pursuers’ horses.

Suddenly, the land comes to an end, and they stand on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the sun bright sea. They dismount.

“Give me ten minutes,” Morientes says, then turns to face the ocean. Slowly, the water at the base of the cliff begins to solidify and take shape – the curving ribs of a ship’s hull, and yearning point of a mast. They wait.

And then it rises, suddenly behind them, a ship of sea foam with sails of insubstantial mist.

“Finally,” Sir Villa grumbles. Morientes flashes him a smile.

David can see the knights closing in the horizon. He looks at the boat – Morientes is already aboard, and Sir Villa is leading the horses on.

When he steps off the land and into the air, onto the ship, he can feel the coolness of the water through his boots, the kiss of the mist on his cheeks. He watches as Spain disappears behind him, as they soar southward, carried only by Mori’s will.

“Where are we going?” he finds himself asking Sir Villa.

Sir Villa shields his eyes with his hands and looks south to the approaching African coastline. He shrugs, grinning. They fly on, over the mirror-bright water, the mist of their sails dissipating behind them.


End file.
